


Yellow Raincoat

by Martina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Bring tissues, Cute, Feels, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Sad, Sickness, Too fluffy, the holmes family - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-04
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:20:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3291788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Martina/pseuds/Martina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When people are under great stress, they show who they really are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Yellow Raincoat

"John, let's go for a walk."

"Sherlock, it's pouring rain outside. Why in the world would you choose now to experience the outdoors?"

Sherlock's long body lay across the sofa, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. I remember when we first met, how nearly everything he did or said just blew me away. Of course now, after several months of living with the magnificent strangeness that is Sherlock Holmes, I've gotten much better at hiding my awe-filled reactions. At least I hope I have. 

"I know it's raining," he spat back at me. "I want to go for a walk." He sprung up from the couch and straightened up, his perfect posture juxtaposed by his messy curls and wrinkled purple button up shirt. I very deliberately went back to reading my emails on my laptop, trying not to stare at him too long. 

"You go if you want, I have things to do, clients to respond to." 

"Oh please, I've read your emails, there's nothing even mildly important or interesting. Except maybe that lawyer going on about his lost aunt, but I think it's already fairly obvious where she is. You can answer him later, come on a walk with me."

With a sigh, I slammed my laptop shut and stood up, straightening my shirt as defiantly as I could manage. 

"Why?" I knew I probably wouldn't get a clear answer- I never did from him- but I did not expect to get no answer at all. He looked straight at me with those impossible eyes and smirked, then moved to his room, leaving me standing in front of my chair like an idiot. 

"Don't forget an umbrella, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson called from the staircase, stepping into the room. "Oh, John, I do hope he's doing alright."

"Doing alright? What are you talking about, he's fine. He's always fine," I added with a chuckle.

"But with his mother, John, this isn't something that people just brush off, even someone like him." I squinted my eyes at her, more confused than I was by Sherlock's demand for a rain soaked walk. 

"What about his mother? Has something happened? Is she in town?" 

"John, she's very sick," she whispered to me, clearly surprised that I didn't know. "Hadn't he told you?"

"N-no," I managed to get out, stunned and confused and sad. I wanted to ask so many questions, but Sherlock cut me off by reappearing in a bright yellow raincoat. 

"Are you ready?"

"Yes of course, Sherlock, what on earth are you wearing?" I couldn't mask the laughter in my voice, and he smiled right along with me. 

"It's pouring rain, as you made quite clear. This is my solution, what's yours?"

"An umbrella, Sherlock, that is my solution to the rain, I've learned a thing or two from Mycroft's quirks, one of them being to always have an umbrella nearby in case my flatmate demands a walk in the rain!"

Again, I got no verbal response from him, just a smile. 

"Come on, let's go. We'll be gone for a while, Mrs. Hudson, it would be marvelous of you to have some tea for us when we return," he flashed a smile at her, and with that he strutted out and down the staircase, his raincoat making an obnoxious crinkling sound with every move of his body. 

"Not your housekeeper, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson mumbled to herself, knowing it was pointless to shout it at him. "Do take care of him today, John."

"Of course, I'll take care of him, thank you for telling me," I grabbed my umbrella and followed the glaring yellow blur of Sherlock out onto the street, closing the door behind me. 

"Let's go right," he decided, and took off at a ridiculous pace I had to nearly run to keep up with. We walked three blocks and he had yet to say a word. 

"Do you want to talk about it?" I asked him, stopping to rest. He noticed I was no longer behind him and backtracked a few long strides to be near me again. 

"Talk? About what? Everything's fine."

Now was my turn to not answer him. I shot him a look of 'don't think for a second that you can lie to me' but he refused to take the hint. 

"I've no clue what you mean, John, I just want to walk in the rain!" He let out a beautiful laugh, and put on a big smile that made him look like a big, yellow suited cartoon character. But his eyes did not match the happy act.

"Sherlock why am I here?" 

"Because I look ridiculous and I need a normal person to counter that," he said, still smiling. It was extremely hard for me not to smile back, but the ice in his eyes kept me grounded. 

"Sherlock." 

"What? Do you not agree I look ridiculous?" He asked, twirling the long yellow coat and raising it up like some sort of Big Bird Vampire cape, the rain rushing off it. I couldn't help but allow a laugh past my lips, but I had to get the truth out of him. 

"No, of course you look ridiculous," I agreed. "But-"

"But what," he snapped, catching me off guard. 

"Mrs. Hudson, she told me... Your mother-" I stopped there, unsure how to navigate this conversation. The smile left his face, his sharp cheekbones and cold eyes piercing through me. 

He turned away from me towards the street and called a taxi. He opened the door and gestured that I get in. He followed me and took off the silly raincoat. 

"Where you headed?" The cabbie asked sharply.

Sherlock still said nothing, just handed the driver a slip of paper from his trouser pocket and promptly sealed the privacy door. 

"John, before you say anything, there's something I have to tell you." He didn't look at me, but I kept my eyes on his sad expression, his gaze locked on the wadded up raincoat in his lap. "My mother is not well. This much I'm sure you know. But it's not some common cold or a flu. She has what's called Huntington's disease. It's a genetic disease that causes seizures, dementia, loss of motor control, basically a terrible way to die." He still had not looked up from the yellow mass he was fidgeting with. 

"I know, Sherlock, I'm a doctor," I said quietly, realizing that it was completely useless in helping him. "Why haven't you told me?"

"I didn't want to tell anyone. Mycroft phoned Mrs. Hudson because he was worried about me."

"Why wouldn't he call me?" I asked him, sill mystified why I hadn't been told. 

"It's a genetic disease, John." He stated simply. I suddenly understood. 

"Have you been tested?" I choked out, trying not to think how it would be to watch my best friend be taken by this disease that would attack his mind as well as his body.

"No, I haven't. I don't want to know," he said, finally looking at me, his eyes red and puffy. "I couldn't do that to- to anyone." He looked back down at the raincoat. 

"I will respect that decision, Sherlock. Do you want to go see your mother in America? I can handle things here for a while," I offered, and was surprised yet again by my friend by the shock that crossed over his marble features.

"I can't leave you, John, not now," he cut himself off abruptly, took a breath, and continued, the emotion taken out of his voice. "There's too much work to do here in London."

"Yes, of course, it was just an offer," I stuttered out, trying to process all of the information. I glanced out the window of the cab and saw buildings and windows and people, my mind was too busy to figure out exactly where I was. "Where are we going?" I asked, hoping to get him out of his mopey state. 

Before he could respond, the cab stopped. Silently, Sherlock got out, threw his yellow coat back on, and paid our driver. I slowly made my way out as well, and opened my umbrella. 

"Sherlock, your head's not covered at all," I commented, noticing his black curls were being plastered to his forehead by the rain. Come here, we'll share. It's not an option, you'll get sick."

"No I won't, that's a myth. Rain won't get me sick," he said, his voice small and quiet. "Come sit with me."

I just then saw where we were: a small public garden, not a single person around due to the downpour. Sherlock sat himself down on a soaked bench and looked up at me with almost childlike eyes, begging me to sit with him. I conceded, sitting beside him and holding the umbrella over both of us. 

"Sherlock, talk to me, please."

"I'm afraid."

I had never heard him speak those words before. 

"I'm afraid for my mother, for my father, for you-"

"For me?" His eyes met mine, a few tears running down his cheeks, and I was so captivated that forgot the glaring yellow of his coat. 

"John," he said, his voice breaking. "I can look at a man and within minutes know most significant details about who he is as a human being. I know his habits, his career, his past, his goals," he paused here, and I hung on to every syllable out of his extraordinary lips. "But you, you see more. You see his values, his mood, things I can only barely understand about myself. I need you for- for my work. You clarify every case, help me sort out facts-"

"Oh for fuck's sake, Sherlock," I laughed. "Cut it out. We both know you could do your work alone, you did for years and years before you had even heard of me." The rain got even heavier, pounding on the umbrella. "Will you tell me where we are and why you are wearing that awful coat?" I couldn't help but smile at his ensemble. He let a smile though too, though I wasn't sure why. 

"This is where I grew up. Well, not in this exact place of course, I didn't live in a park," he clarified, making me laugh, and he mirrored my smile. "The building right there," he pointed to an old brick building to the left. "That was my childhood home, at least for several years. My mother and I would come out here when it rained. We would bring tea and we would not bring umbrellas. We would sit right here and talk. No one comes here when it rains this badly."

"Except people who want to be alone," I interjected, flustered by this rare insight into Sherlock Holmes' past. 

"Quite right," he said quietly, a tiny smile playing at the corner of his lips. "Why do you think you are here? Right now, with me, in this park."

"Because you don't want to be alone," I stated. It wasn't a guess, and my face explained that to him. That was one of the great things about speaking with Sherlock, he always saw so much that you never had to say as many words as with other people. 

"Right again. John, try to be me for a moment. Why am I wearing this yellow raincoat and matching boots?"

"Are you sure? I'm not very good at what you do, you've made that quite clear," I said, referring to the countless times he'd made me feel like a complete idiot for trying my hand at deductions. 

"You have all the information you need. Why am I wearing this raincoat?" He have me an insistent look, begging me to give it a shot. 

"Fine," I sighed, sensing he needed me to try for some reason. "Well, it's raining." 

"Yes it is. Hence, a raincoat. But why This one? This jarring shade of yellow that is usually reserved for cartoons and young boys?"

"I don't know Sherlock, because you like to stand out?" I asked, exasperated already. He responded to my frustration with the first genuine smile I'd seen on his face all day. "What are you so happy about?" 

"I'm glad you're here with me, John."

"Oh so you like to see me get frustrated, is that it?" I asked, now allowing myself to smile with him. 

"I like to see you think. I can read it on your face, all your thoughts and ideas, your features give it all away to me," he was rambling a little, his quick words running together. "It's nice to see that you're thinking about me."

I didn't answer for a moment, surprised by this look into the emotional part of Sherlock Holmes. 

"I'm glad that it makes you happy. Why tell me these things now, in the pouring rain, in a garden by your childhood home?" I expected a snarky remark, some logically calculated sarcasm to be shot at me, as was the usual with how Sherlock expressed emotions. 

"Because you make me feel safe, John Watson, and I want you to know that," he said, his face like stone, but his eyes alive with emotion and caring. I was speechless. "My mother gave me this coat when I was thirteen. I keep it under my bed and only take it out when I need it." 

I noticed then that the sleeves of the coat were about 4 inches too short. If he hadn't been so thin it would not have fit a grown man. It had to have been a boy's coat. I should've seen it when he'd asked me too, but I was too nervous. I was always nervous around him, afraid I was going to disappoint him. 

"Why did your mother buy you a raincoat in this appalling shade of yellow?" I asked with a chuckle, hoping to cheer him up. 

"She was worried about me getting hit by a car," he scoffed. I knew he thought he was too smart to be killed by something so mundane as a car. "Also, there was a class play about some nonsense happening in the rain and to avoid a speaking part I needed a raincoat I could hide in."

"And you thought yellow was the best choice to hide in the background?"

"The backdrop was yellow," he explained, and we both started laughing. He looked at the ground, I looked at him, glad to see him happy for a moment. 

There was a clap of thunder and I was jolted into remembering about the storm over head. 

"Sherlock, we should head back to Baker Street," I suggested, hoping that he felt well enough to leave his safety zone. I got ready to stand up, but he laid his hand on my leg, a surprise that kept me seated. 

"Please, stay, John. I don't ask much of you-" I interrupted with a short chuckle of disbelief, and he answered with a small smile of acquiescence. "Fine, I ask for plenty of things from you. But please, will you do this one favor for me, I will owe you whatever you want, just stay here and keep me safe. I can face reality later."

"Yes, of course, I'll stay with you, Sherlock," I said, smiling at him, trying to tear up at the most profound expression of emotion and vulnerability he'd ever shown me. "You saved me, in a very odd way, when we met. I was tired and afraid of the future and I was certain I would never feel alive again. I was ready to die. But you, you have made it so that there's nothing I fear more than not having you anymore." I smiled at him and he smiled back, both of us understanding there was little need for more words. I noticed he hadn't taken his hand off my leg. I didn't say anything in protest. 

"Can I tell you a story?" He asked, looking back at the ground. 

"Of course." I said warmly, placing my fingertips lightly on top of his hand, testing for a reaction. There was none, so I slowly laced my fingers between his. He said nothing of it, and neither did I. It just felt normal. He talked about his mother for two hours, telling me stories of her eccentricities and strokes of genius and I couldn't help but think 'the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.' 

"And she stormed into his office and told him firmly that I was to be placed in the 5th year class! He was shocked and responded with a weak 'I'm sorry, ma'am, but he's only eight years old, he'll be two years behind the other students' and she just scoffed. I chimed in with the truth- that I was already three years ahead of the fifth year students and everyone knew it, and the poor man placed me in sixth year class! She always was so determined to get the best for Mycroft and I," he said dreamily. It was the most I'd ever hear him speak of his childhood, and I was hanging on every word, though my legs had fallen asleep and my feet were cold and soaked by the rain. His hand gripped mine tight and he hadn't stopped smiling for at least thirty minutes. He looked angelic and I couldn't stop staring. "Thank you, John," he said, looking up at me with his beautiful eyes.

"Of course," I said weakly, too happy to form a long sentence. 

"We should head back. There's a game to be played, and the start of it is hiding somewhere in your emails. Mother always liked games, it would be disrespectful to stop playing on her account."

"You're right, we'll go home and find you a fun one, a murder with no apparent motive or a missing body or something like that," I suggested, and he laughed quietly. God, he was gorgeous when he laughed. 

"Thank you," he repeated, squeezing my hand again. "Let's go home so I can take this silly yellow thing off."

I stood up, and released his hand, but he wasn't having that at all, his fingers finding mine again before we reached the street to call a cab. I still said nothing, just smiled and held the umbrella up across my body to shield him too. 

We got a cab- it didn't take long, what with him being in a giant yellow raincoat- and he slid in while I closed the umbrella. I got in after him, and he reached for my hand.

"Where to?" 

"221 B Baker Street, please. Thank you." I said, nearly giggling. 

I pulled on Sherlock's hand a little, and flashed him a smile, tilting my head suggesting that he should come closer. He laid his head in my lap and folded his body to fit on the seat, like I'd seen him do so often at the flat. I ran my hand slowly through his curls, beyond happy that I had the world's greatest man in my lap. 

The next few weeks were going to be hard for him. He would probably stay up at night crying. He'd done that once before, a night I'd come home early from a date with Sarah. I walked up the stairs and heard a quiet sobbing sound coming from his room. He didn't know I'd heard him, and I could never be entirely sure why he was crying, but I had my theories. But now, if he was crying, I could get in bed with him and hold him close to me and keep him safe until he felt strong again. I could tell him stories to make him happy and forget the pain he was going through. We rode in a comfortable silence to Baker Street, and walked up to the door holding hands. I reached for the door but hesitated. 

"What's wrong?" He asked, genuinely curious. 

"Mrs. Hudson will be there when we go in," I said, unsure of how to proceed. 

"Yes, she will be." Sherlock responded, opening the door himself and walking in, his hand not straying from mine. 

This was going to be the start of a new part of my life. One thing I knew: life with Sherlock Holmes was miraculously getting even more interesting. 

The only other thing I knew: I was in love with the tall, genius, socially inept, wonderful man in the ridiculous yellow raincoat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! This was vaguely inspired by Alone on the Water, a brilliant story you should all check out if you haven't read it yet. I welcome all ideas, thoughts and reactions:) there may be some typos, I'll fix those as they come up.


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